salubrious
by maybe now
Summary: post-DH drabble series.   He wonders if things will ever go back to normal- he wonders what 'normal' even means.  eventual h/g
1. tired

**title:** salubrious

**pairing:** [eventual] harry/ginny

**an**: from 100_situations, though I haven't submitted it there... yet? I'd been looking to do this for quite some time now, and finally missed writing enough to finally do it. I'm aware of all my other s[hit]tories that I've started and not finished, which I swear if I come up with motivation for I'll continue... but for now, I'm liking the conciseness of a drabble... If I don't venture from the table, there should be **100** chapters of this.

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_salubrious _

His body still aches as he regains consciousness.

It takes him more than a second to realize where he is, and, more significantly, what he has done.

His green eyes flit around the space trapped inside the closed curtains of his four-poster bed. At Hogwarts.

Voldemort.

_-is gon_e, his mind cuts in after the familiar dread creeps up on him. _is gone, and you stopped it. You did it._

_It's over._

Over. It is finally over. Harry tries to relax in his four-poster bed, feeling slightly nostalgic as he fidgets around the comfortable bed.

He feels strange, being here. He should be camping in some forgotten forest, fearful, continuously checking over his shoulder, scrounging for something to eat, dirty. Has he taken a shower? The last thing he can remember is crawling up the steps to the dormitory before…

That's the last he remembers, so he must have slept-walked to the bed.

Quietly he sniffs the air.

He hasn't taken a shower. How long _has_ it been, actually? There's no way he remembers that. Does the jump from the Gringott's dragon into the lake count? Probably not, and regardless, he still smells. And his hair feels matted and grimy against his scalp.

How long has he slept? He wonders what time it is, tries to remember what time it was when he hid the Elder Wand away and trudged back to the common room with Ron and Hermione—

And with that, the semi-haze lifts.

_Colin Creevey. Lavender. Fred!—_

His mind falters on the previous three, unable to compute the fifty more.

Lupin and Tonks. Pressure heightens behind his eyes. Gone, both gone. Only just married, with a son!—

Another orphan like him. Another orphan because of a war.

Flashes of his childhood sink his stomach. Because of this, Teddy will—

But he won't. Things are different this time. He's gone, really gone, and there will be no need for all the protection that had been set up around Harry.

_He will have family that loves him_, he thinks fiercely.

Unbidden, Fred Weasley invades his thoughts and suddenly he can think no more as grief, regret takes him.

Fred didn't deserve this, none of them deserved this, the family's they left behind didn't deserve this…

Harry screws his eyes shut again. As he lies there in bed, thoughts lay heavy as he thinks of all the grieving families that lost a loved one because he, Harry, was being hunted by Lord Voldemort.

Guilt overwhelms him in the small, dark, confined space of his four-poster bed and he no longer cares what time it is.

He is tired, tired still, cannot think of a time when he didn't feel tired, and rolls over, trying to regain unconsciousness.


	2. back alley

**title:** salubrious

**pairing:** [eventual] harry/ginny

**an:** I was going to wait til tomorrow to post this, but... why not? Thanks to anyone reading this and please feel free to drop a review if you so feel inclined.

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_salubrious _

It is not quiet this time, this time there's the muffled murmur of soft voices as his green eyes flutter open.

It is still dark in the rectangle enclosed by the velvet hangings. Once again he wonders what time it is. Perhaps this will be a reoccurring theme for the rest of his life. Perhaps after so much time on the run, he has lost his internal clock.

For the first time, he contemplates who else would be staying in the dormitory. Neville? Ron? The other boys from his grade? Or are they all staying with their families?

It makes sense that he is here, then. Because though he has people that love him, he does not have blood family. It's true that the Weasley's are the closest thing he has, but he is still an outsider. He only has seven, not seventeen, years.

And his father's likeness with his mother's eyes.

The voices start again and with his sleepiness dispelled, he can tell who it is. He isn't surprised to hear Hermione's logical yet soothing tone answering a more distraught Ron's. After spending every minute with each other for nearly a year, it must have seemed inherently wrong for Hermione to be in the girl's dormitory, alone.

Guilt—an emotion he's all familiar with—sweeps through him. They can only be talking about the war. His mind immediately jumps to Fred, which immediately triggers more pain, but he tries to convince himself it could be about something else.

He can't decide if that would make him feel better.

Suddenly, he seems very much alone. It is true that he appreciates the quiet and tranquility of solitude, of not having to answer admirers and reporters who think he did so much more than he did, that it was more than circumstance, coincidence, and chance, but he is alone.

Is he lonely? For a brief moment, he wishes that someone was there, holding him together and comforting him as he can picture occurring outside the curtains. He pictures red hair—

But he's dealt with worse. He does not need to dump his troubles on others, when everyone has their own to deal with.

Harry feels torn. On one hand, he wants to go out there, to be with them, his best friends, who would understand….

A larger part of him wants to hide away from them.

They hadn't had time to discuss what had happened to him in the Pensieve, about his decisions afterwards, all of these emotional-heavy memories that suddenly start to drown him.

Would they understand? Could he handle their pain at their almost-loss, _his_ almost loss? Could deal with Hermione's tears, Ron's gruff, choked threats that he should '_never do that again, you noble idiot'_?

The memories alone pain him, and he doesn't want to have to relive them, hashing out details and _what-exactly-was-in-the-memories_' and _what-did-it-feel-like_'s and _you-saw-Dumbledore?_'s.

It's too much.

So he waits, waits until the voices drop off and the room is filled with light snores.

His body creaks as he sits up.

He wonders what time it is.


	3. sunrise

**title:** salubrious

**pairing: **[eventual] harry/ginny

**an: **This was supposed to be a place where I could write drabbles and update quickly. We should know by now that it WOULD take me almost two months to write 900 more words. Maybe now, indeed.

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_salubrious_**  
><strong>

His first order of business is to make his way through the murky twilight to the bathroom. He must have slept nearly an entire day and yet Harry still blearily rubs at his eyes and yawns as he swings his legs off of the bed.

Harry stands up, legs feeling rubbery from the prolonged disuse. He stares down and flexes his toes, pale white against the dark wood of the flooring in the already shadowed room. He really is safe in the Gryffindor Tower, he really did sleep in an obscenely comfortable four-poster bed last night.

_Right?_

The world still feels surreal to Harry. He feels like he woke up still in dream, where there is always that persistent twinge that tells him that this really isn't happening. This is all inside his head.

_Of course this is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?_

Harry closes his eyes and shakes his head, and the flashes of white fade into the gray of the room. The gravity of the surreal experiences he has so recently gone through linger on the edge of his mind—

A soft snore directs his attention to the bed next to him and while consciously knowing it's Ron, lingering instincts tell him he should still check anyway.

It is without a doubt the sleeping Ron that is responsible for the snores, but there are other quieter breaths accompanying him. Ron's arms are protectively woven around Hermione, her back pulled tightly to his chest even in sleep. It is striking how small she seems to Harry in that moment, and even though her expression is peaceful in its unconsciousness, he does not miss the tear tracks on either of their cheeks.

Harry is a little surprised to see them lying there together, and the fact that he is surprised surprises him as well. It is almost like he has waited so long for them to finally admit that needed more from each other, that when they finally did it was like he missed something.

He always seems to be missing something.

There is an ache in his chest that longs for those in the past and the present, but seeking comfort from any that comes to mind is something that Harry thinks he cannot do. Too much has happened to seek out the person he wishes to hold without having to speak. He can no longer reach the dead.

His body is heavy as he turns away from Ron's bed and quietly walks to the bathroom. Harry does not make a noise as he crosses the room, and neither when he opens and shuts the door. It is another one of those instinctual habits that he knows will take conscious effort to remove, that he will have to remind himself that he no longer needs to hide.

He does not want to deal with adjusting his eyes to the light, so he avoids the lamps before stripping and heading into the shower. He feels skinny, skinny in a way he hasn't felt since he was eleven years old when all he knew was that his parents were dead, he had a strange scar on his forehead, and he lived in a cupboard under the stairs.

The grime washes off him in rivulets and Harry would be unable to tell anyone how long he spent in the shower or how many bars of soap he went through, because he has never savored a shower more.

The gray of night has turned more milky now. Harry stands, towel wrapped around his waist, staring at the mirror. His body holds new scars now, but his attention is called to a much older, iconic mark.

His first thought is a staggering one: _I died._

He resists the urge to touch it.

Harry died. He died. And yet he is standing right here. The pale flesh reflected back in the mirror covers a beating heart—had it stopped in those moments? Minutes? Hours? Or had no time passed at all?

He is alive, he thinks, taking a prolonged breath just to feel his lungs expand and contract to their limit.

But he had died. He had walked to his death. And although it had been done for the noblest of causes, the thought that he is capable of making that decision scares him. He will be commended for his bravery.

He had died, amongst many others.

But he had come back to life, and all of the others had not. It does not feel real to him. Harry feels sure that he will wake up, still in the tent, still on the floor of the Forbidden Forest, and Death Eaters and Voldemort and snakes will await him and his quest will last for days and days and days…..

All problems have not been solved, though, even if he did kill Voldemort, even if he did end his reign of terror. There are so many left that they did not detain. His body gains a hundred pounds as the weight of what to come settles on his conscious.

He will still be watching over his shoulder. He will still sleep with his wand right next to his pillow. He will have to, won't he?

The happiness, relief, and finality he felt yesterday, at the supposed end of all things, had vanished like a foggy haze.

He sees the sun rise through the shuttered window and keeps trying to remember that everything is supposed to have changed.


	4. late

**title:** salubrious

**pairing: **[eventual] harry/ginny

**an: **two months later... as per usual. I'll try to be better, those of you who have found this or are reading it. any words are appreciated- reviews are my life source.

**dedication: **to the lovely **Scarlett** **Ribbon, **who inspired this next segment to be written with her amazing review. thank you so much for those words- they reminded me 1) that I had started this 100sit, and 2) that I'm capable of writing something better than passable. This one's for you.

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_salubrious_

Harry dresses quickly and quietly—it seems that this, this quickly, quietly, quickly quietly will be yet another reoccurring theme—, hoping to avoid waking Ron and Hermione. He tells himself that he does this because they deserve their rest, and they do. He just can't ignore that guilty, shameful twinge that whispers phrases such as _avoidance,_ and_ such a coward._

His head hangs slightly as he exits the room.

He has made his way down the staircase and to the common room, stopping as his vision catches on familiar furniture and a crackling fire. The Gryffindor common room appears virtually untouched by the war, and it is disconcerting. He sees his familiar arm chair, and wonders who, if anyone, filled its vacancy for the past year.

Harry is surprised that cots haven't been set up in this safe, unharmed, open space. He feels selfish, that he slept so well in a plush bed nestled in a relatively empty dormitory while the other occupants of the castle, most of who had done much more fighting than himself in that final battle, denied themselves the comfort of a familiar place.

Did they avoid the tower out of some sort of respect, giving them the distance and space they need in turn for the long trek they made for the past year?

Harry doesn't think he will ever be able to accept how people view the things he has done. The gratitude, the reverent respect… He doesn't deserve it, and he knows this.

Even though the absence of persons in the common room and dormitory is a great relief, Harry feels those damn twinges again.

He shakes his head, and finds the urge to keep moving, keep moving. He's been moving non-stop for the past year. _Don't stay in the same place for too long, people will find you._

Harry is out the portrait hole before he can realize it, and he too suddenly wonders where he is even going. He supposes he is hungry, and so spurs his decision to visit the kitchen as opposed to the Great Hall. He makes himself think that this is because he is not even sure if the tables would still serve food this early in the morning against the patchwork ceiling and heaps of rubble.

The sun has just fully emerged from behind the horizon, and the corridors are filled with a combination of a soft half light of the pink of dawn and the warm glow of the candles. Harry pads, quietly, down an autopilot route. It is as if he's walking through a dream world, in the fuzzy soft lights, and he is not attached to his body.

The thought startles him to awareness, and he is caught off guard when he realizes the slight weight on his head and the brush against his arms.

He had concealed himself in his invisibility cloak, instinctively, and it unsettles him.

The portraits are not looking at him though, nor the potential passerby, and although he hears the whispers of those god forsaken twinges, he leaves it on.

Humans have entered the hall now, perhaps making their way down to the Great Hall, a habitual path that alums and students alike may find comfort in. There are only a few in the passageways he passes, but those that are walk in groups, no stragglers.

Harry deftly avoids them, quickly, quietly, ghosting around them like the phantom to this world he is.

Single-mindedly dedicated to his task, the sudden vision that appears as he turns a corner sends his stomach in knots. He stops, mouth slightly open in a halted gasp.

She walks with a pride he has always recognized. Her face is a bit too pale, freckles standing out a bit too much, and the haunt around her eyes troubles him, but still she walks with echoes of unbounded determination and fire. Her red hair turns glorious in that mesmerizing soft candle-dawn light.

She walks alone.

For a second he swears she can see him, that she locked eyes with him as she neared. But her brown eyes wander again, and it could only have been random.

There is an itch in his hand, a small jump in movement that nears grasping the cloak. She passes him, his heart pounding, pleading to reach out, but her steps continue behind him.

He closes his eyes in something like resolve and slips off the cloak—_quickly, quietly_—and turns to face her.

He opens his mouth to say something, but he is too late.

The strands of red disappear around the corner and he is left, invisible.


	5. son

**title:** salubrious

**pairing: **[eventual] harry/ginny

**an:** This is written largely for **The Scarlett Ribbon**- with reviews like yours, it's ok if I don't get any more. [ALTHOUGH I WOULD LOVE FOR SOME MORE. justsaying_itwouldbenice,ok?_] But seriously. I appreciate that you appreciate.

I'm just kind of... writing this as it comes, my fingers just typing out whatever feels right for these immediate next steps in the Harry Potter world, to me. Please read and review, and tell me what you think!

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_salubrious_

He is met with a tense red-headed best friend fisting an old, worn piece of parchment when he returns to the dormitory.

Ron's face is slightly pale and he doesn't blink when Harry takes off his invisibility cloak, green eyes slightly wide.

"I'm surprised you didn't take this,' he says, holding something inside that flattens his voice and causes Harry to look down for a moment as Ron waves the paper a bit in his clenched hand.

Harry doesn't know what to say, so he just meets Ron's eyes again.

A bit of hardness softens there, and Ron's blue eyes glance away.

"Just don't… disappear like that, ok?" he mutters, still not looking at him.

Harry nods, and he knows Ron saw because he murmurs a quick "_mischief managed_" before awkwardly holding out the map to him.

"Where's Hermione?" he asks after he takes the map and slips it in his pocket. He suddenly realizes that he has spent every day of nearly an entire year completely in her presence. It feels off that she's not there now.

"Shower," he replies, hand scratching the back of his own damp hair.

Harry smirks but reels in any comments he could make.

Ron notices and the back of his neck flushes.

"You—no—shut up, Harry!" he splutters, turning around and stalking back to his bed.

Harry smiles, amused, following Ron before sitting opposite on his own bed from where Ron has sprawled out across deep red blankets.

Ron glances at him out of the corner of his eye. "You know, we didn't like… you can't be serious that you thought…" he trails off, cheeks the infamous Weasley red, and sighing exasperatedly he flings an arm over his head before loudly saying, "C'mon, help me out, Harry!"

Harry wants to laugh. "Yeah, I know."

Ron exhales. "Okay."

Harry lies back, crossing his arms behind his head. He wonders if he feels awkward, about his two friends being together, and then he wonders if Ron feels awkward, if he still thinks that anything had or could happen between him and Hermione.

He wonders if he should say something, like he did after Ron killed the Horcrux, that nothing has happened or will ever happen between himself and Hermione, but second-guesses himself and wonders if it would only make it worse.

He's never been very good with words.

Hermione walks in to this scene with a raised eyebrow.

"Well I'm glad you're all clean," she says primly, matter-of-factly, and Harry feels comfort in the habit of her bossy, prim nature, like nothing had happened yesterday or the past year, "because we should all go down to the Great Hall and get some lunch. There are still many things that still need doing."

Harry insides wince at this, but nods and gets up. Ron stands up, and in between his two best friends he doesn't feel quite so lost. Because they, more than anyone, can relate the best to things he has been through.

He can hear the voices as they walk together nearer the hall.

Hundreds still remain at Hogwarts, and they seem to all be perched in the Great Hall, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of him, of the three of them.

He cannot avoid everyone forever, and when the eyes latch onto him as he enters the Great Hall he tries to be gracious as they smile at him and speak his name like he is the prodigious son as he walks by. Some reach out and touch him. Ron and Hermione stick closely to his back.

He had never wanted this, and it is only his sense of duty that keeps him walking towards the shock of red hair congregated at the end of the hall and not running back the opposite way.

His heart hammers as his steps take him nearer, a path cutting out in front of him like he was parting the seas of people. They are all pressing down on him, weight pressing down on him, and he does not know if it gets better or worse when he reaches his destination where Molly Weasley turns and looks at him with red rimmed glassy brown eyes, mouth trembling, and he's stopped moving, but she holds her arms out and—

Feeling slightly ashamed and more than a little guilty, he allows himself to step into the comfort of her embrace.


	6. hot

**title:** salubrious

**pairing: **[eventual] harry/ginny

**an: **hi. [shorter than usual today but that's how it has to be.]

I like writing. I also like reviews. hope the new year is treating you well. I also am finding myself interested in writing more hp, review with any requests [thisisthemomentwhere: 1)eitherIgetmorereviews, or 2)Igetnone] REVIEW. MAKE MY DAY. I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER**  
><strong>

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_salubrious  
><em>

Mrs. Weasley's arms are still around him, and he can feel the sound of her words wash over his body, his mind, can feel the _drip drip drip_ of her tears as they slide down his neck to gather in the fabric of his robes.

His arms embrace her too, but there seems to be just white noise roaring in his ears so he doesn't know what to say back.

But he knows what she probably is saying, and they are words that he should want to hear—but he knows it was his fault and that it's not okay and that it's not over.

However, he is, also, glad he is alive, but that twinge of guilt because while she may care that he is alive, her son is not, and she shouldn't have to be saying that to him to make him feel better when there's a gaping hole in the makeup of her family that he stands outside of.

At some point, his eyes had closed, but as he shifts, trying to relieve that heavy pressure of guilt, they open. She is standing directly in front of him, a few paces away, amongst the rest of her grieving family, but Ginny is looking right at him and he can't avoid her because she is _right there_ and he is confused because he doesn't understand why he wants to.

Their eyes only meet, and that instance is full with such a disarming white-hot intensity that Harry's mind goes blank and his heart becomes burden with an incredible weight and he cannot think, only feel.

A tear escapes from the corner of her eye. He blinks. Somebody moves in front of her. The moment is gone.

He feels burnt.


	7. friend

**title:** salubrious

**pairing: **[eventual] harry/ginny

**an:** a massive thank you I love you to aw844 and, of course, the scarlett ribbon for the reviews last chapter. I've been kind of missing, I know, but this prompt gave me an unbelievable case of writer's block. it was awful. but I came up with this? short again, I must say, but to add anything else would have killed it. I like, do you like? thank you to anyone reading and feel free to drop a review! I love hearing back from you. it makes my day all happy and shiny and makes ME happy and shiny. And don't we all want to feel happy and shiny? Right?

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_salubrious_

He needs to do something.

That line runs through Harry constantly, his knees, concealed underneath the table, jittering up and down to some faced paced rhythm as he sits amongst familiar faces in the ruins of the Great Hall. There is a low hum spread throughout the shambled space, a steady strum of different tenors as the survivors utter to one another.

His fingers drum on his thighs.

Harry had left Ron and Hermione with the Weasleys, slipping off as, after another round of warm hugs, Mr. Weasley placed both hands on Ron's shoulders, tears escaping from the sides of his proud gaze, and started speaking in low tones. Harry didn't want to, couldn't pin down the tight feeling in his chest as he watched Ron, after a brief downcast of the eyes and blush of the neck, throw his arms around his father in response—but it had him moving, escaping away unnoticed as Mrs. Weasley fussed over a blushing Hermione for a second time.

The voices of those nearest—Neville, Luna, Dean—flit against his awareness with the touch of moth wings. They respect him, his privacy, enough to realize that he is no mood to talk, but Harry hopes that, his presence brings them some sense of comfort at least. For they, his Hogwarts friends, the ones that don't know what happened the past year, who haven't seen him at his very worst, offer him some odd sense of relief as well.

It is only a small comfort, though, and again Harry's hands itch to just _do_ something. Eyeing the gaping holes and heaps of rubble scattered through the hall, he wonders when the clean-up, the rebuilding is going to start. This is only one area of the school, and he knows that the destruction has a much larger radius.

The school needs to be fixed. The incoming class of First Years must arrive in September. Hogwarts, now free from the rein of the Carrows, free from the dark shadow of Voldemort. It must become that magical safe haven once more.

He owes it to the school, to Hogwarts, the first place he felt like he belonged, a symbol of hope and better things. He owes it to the lonely boy sitting on the edge of the playground, bullied for being different.

It is only the second day after the end of the war, and he knows that everyone is still grieving, grieving and feeling grateful to have survived.

Harry is tired of grief, too guilty to allow himself to feel gratitude for his survival.

He just needs to do something.

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><p>an: i love you. please review? what would you like to see happen? anything?<p> 


	8. floor

**title:** salubrious

**pairing:** [eventual] h/g

**an: **I'm not dead. s/o to aggie holmes, thank you for the review last chapter.

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_salubrious_

He's studying the floor when she sits next to him.

He knows it's her because it smells just like her flowery perfume, the smell that haunted him from that potion during 6th year and clouds his senses and makes him want to forget and sigh and crumple just a little bit—

A tentative hand touches his forearm, a small, seemingly platonic touch that feels anything but to him.

He does not look at her, but he can feel her eyes on him.

The hand retracts.

"_Ginny_…" the word comes strangled and unbidden from his lips, the sound just as much a part of the confounding push-pull he's felt over her since he woke up after the battle. The confidence of _all the time in the world_ has left him, and he's struggling for air here.

His head makes the mistake of turning towards her, his eyes sweep up to meet hers.

They are deep, swirling brown, staring back right at him, a mask of strength but he can see the vulnerability underneath. He wonders what she sees in his own, she, who was always one to call him out whenever he tried to hide.

There are tears pooling in her eyes again, and, dammit, he doesn't know what he's supposed to do here, because something about Ginny was that she didn't cry. She was too proud, too determined to succumb to sadness but Harry knows that everything is too much for her small frame now. And he knows that it is not him, that right now she could not be thinking of him because—because of _Fred_ and there is no way anything about him or their short time of _us_ can compare. And it's not a competition.

They are still watching each other. She is biting her lip in a subtle way that doesn't show her teeth. Harry doesn't know what to say, has no concept of where to start or what she wants from him and he feels trapped because one part of him wants to just sweep her up in his arms because she's here_ -she's safe, she's alive, she made it through and he made it through and now they can be happy and together like they should have always-_ while another is frozen and yet feels so raw and it is too much and surely it must be too much for her, if she cares enough still anyways. A year is a long time.

She opens her mouth and Harry, with a confusing mixture of trepidation and eagerness, waits to hear her first words to him.

"Ginny!"

Their faces mirror a shared confusion, until a girl with tearstained cheeks that Harry recognizes but doesn't know sits down on Ginny's opposite side.

Dammit, couldn't people see they were trying to- to-

Harry doesn't drop his head to his hands like he wants to as Ginny's eyelids shutter close. It feels like slow motion as he watches Ginny gather herself. When brown eyes meet green again, the tears are gone.

She leaves him with one last look, filled with a mixture of emotion and steel that he doesn't know how to interpret, before turning and embracing the girl next to her. Harry listens for a moment as the girl blubbers words onto Ginny's shoulder, watches as Ginny runs her hand through the girl's chestnut hair.

Harry turns away, holding in his sigh before quietly excusing himself from the table, a few murmured goodbye's trailing in the wake—but none from her, he can't hear her and he can't help but feel a little bitter.

It was just a moment, but that, too, had been stolen away from them.


	9. peace

**title:** salubrious

**pairing:** eventual h/g

**an: **er. hello there, any readers who follow this story. to newcomers: welcome! don't let the very distant publish date deter you! It's been a long time, everyone, so for that, I thought I'd reward you with an extra long chapter than the norm for this story: 1200+ words! just kidding, I didn't do that for you guys (sorry), it just kind of ran away from me. I was stuck on this prompt for so long, until a week ago when I was all of a sudden struck with inspiration for a prompt like 7 chapters in the future [Ican'twaittouploaditIcan'twait]. From there, I tuned back into this story because I'm excited to get to that point [ithasharry/ginnyinteractionYES]. plus I remembered that, hello, I love writing why the fuck did I stop [and then I remember these things called university and neuroscience and pre-med that kicked the living shit out of me for a whole year andIlikedit]. also, if you even care or are still reading this because for some reason you haven't skipped ahead to the part that isn't neurotic rambling, I got a curious little project still in the incubation stage, a multi-chap hp fic. should be for an interesting time. ... IT FEELS SO FUCKING GOOD TO POST SOMETHING AGAIN. okay. go enjoy.

**dedication:** to anyone who [still] gives a shit. you're fucking awesome.

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_salubrious_

"I can't do it. I can't be in here for one more second," says Ron as they hasten down the corridor. Harry doesn't quite know where they're going, Ron dragging him with a tight grip on his forearm. He looks back to see a bit frantic Hermione exit the Great Hall, head rapidly swiveling back and forth looking down both directions of the hallway before catching sight of them.

The relief on her face is palpable as she hurries to catch up.

"What in Merlin's name has got you two off in such a rush?" she hisses, shoulders tense as she glares up at Ron.

"What? Oh, Hermione." Ron turns his head towards her, the daze in his voice indicating that he had not even noticed Hermione's approach.

She huffs in response, before turning sharp eyes on Harry.

He just shrugs, gesturing towards his held arm. She rolls her eyes, deflating slightly.

"Well, where are we going?" she asks impatiently.

Ron's face falls from mild confusion into something more of a grimace, and he releases Harry's arm. His jaw sets as he turns his head, the afternoon sun shining on his face from the massive hole the giants had made in the castle wall.

"Out. Not here."

His fists curl, knuckles turning white, and Harry briefly catches sight of Hermione's fingers quickly and gently stroking the back of his hand. Her expression changes into one of understanding, and Harry's gaze darts away.

Ron lets out a deep breath.

"Let's just…" he starts, eyebrows scrunching as he thinks, "let's just… I dunno. Go anywhere that isn't here."

The thought of escaping brings about an intense wave of anticipated relief. It almost chokes him. Harry can think of nothing better, to get out, to not be in the castle, to not hear the crunching of their feet trodding over splinters and debris and broken glass, to not be assaulted by all the feelings that every face he sees calls up…

"Well, we can't go very far," Hermione is saying, ever the pragmatist. "Maybe to Hogsmeade."

Ron shrugs. "Good enough for me. Harry?" he questions, cocking an eyebrow.

"Let's go," he replies, already taking steps to where the great entry doors of Hogwarts once stood. The hinges still sit on the walls.

It is a bright, warm day, uncharacteristic even for summer, and he has to blink a few times before his eyes fully adjust to being directly in the sunlight.

Harry's chest tightens as he surveys the damage the battle wrought.

There is debris scattered everywhere in close proximity to the castle. The grounds lay torn apart, deep trenches tilled into the earth from the walk of the giants. Fallen trees litter the landscape, their roots wilting as they snake fruitlessly towards the sky.

He shakily lets out a breath. The image in front of them has frozen them in their steps, but Harry is desperate for the elusive respite that might be possible for him in Hogsmeade and so he puts another foot forward.

Ron and Hermione trail behind him as he begins picking his way down the ravaged steps. His eyes scout ahead as he tries to find a relatively uninterrupted path of stones, although the damage has them mostly shuffling their way down hills of rubble.

Their descent is quiet, and the only noises are their footsteps and the faint rustling of leaves. There is an unsettling lack of birds chirping, notable only in their absence.

They continue to work silently, but as Harry puts his weight down on the next step, the rocks break apart before cascading suddenly down the decline.

His arms windmill as his feet start sliding forward, only to be stopped by Ron's arms snaking under his armpits.

"_Harry!_" Hermione gasps as he struggles to find purchase. His heart is thumping hard against his chest.

He steadies, and Ron lets go. He glances up at Ron and Hermione, whose faces are a little off color.

"Be more careful, Harry!" Hermione admonishes, Ron nodding resolutely along.

As he stares up at Hermione's serious face, he feels something rising from his belly, traveling further up his body, until suddenly it overwhelms him and he can no longer contain it.

Harry busts out laughing.

It is so hilarious to him that he can't even breathe properly, doubling over, needing to support himself on his knees.

He hears Hermione scoff as she mutters crossly to Ron, "_Well, I was serious…" _to which he replies, "_Well… when you think about it, I think a few loose rocks total up to be at the bottom of the list of dangers we have ever been up against…"_ and Harry's eyes are tearing with mirth at his body's immediate adrenaline-filled reaction because for Merlin's sake he had willingly took a Killing Curse in cold blood and yet somehow his body was still fazed by slipping on a few stones.

"Oh, shut up, Harry," says Hermione hotly, smacking his shoulder for good measure.

He straightens, fingers pushing the tears away from the corners of his eyes.

"Sorry," he apologizes, wiping his fingers on his jeans, unable to fight the residual grin on his face.

Hermione rolls her eyes, and motions to the direction of Hogsmeade.

Without further incident, they continue their way on to the village just outside the castle.

The incident on the stairs seems to have lightened the mood that had been weighing on them, and Ron even managed to make a few jokes as they walked on the broken path. The damage lessens as they proceed further and further from the castle, until it is nearly eliminated as they enter the outskirts of Hogmeade.

Although the streets are not overly busy, Harry feels like he could somehow properly breathe again as he finally views a sight that looks relatively normal. He vaguely wonders if anyone is manning The Three Broomsticks... He could really go for a Butterbeer…

His musings are slightly disturbed as his eyes detects movement in his peripheral vision.

There is a brief shout.

"It's him! It's Harry Potter!"

A large flash of light disrupts his vision, and he hears Ron mutter "_What in Merlin's name…"_ on his right.

He blearily blinks his eyes, arm outstretched as if to ward off the blinding light as his vision returns.

Reporters have crawled out of their holes in the ground. They seem to melt from the walls of the buildings until they all swarm in front of him, jockeying against each other for a better position.

The amount of people around him goes from two to countless in less than twenty seconds.

The noises and flashes are overwhelming; suddenly everyone is shouting at once, questions and words making it to his ears as he stands rooted, shell-shocked in place.

"_Harry! Harry!"_ they are saying.

"_What truly happened in the Forbidden Forest, Harry?"_

"_Look over here, Harry!"_

It has been not three days, he thinks, repulsed, whilst mildly surprised that the thought reaches him over the frenzy.

"_Harry! Harry!"_

"_How did you manage to fake your death and fool the most powerful dark wizard in all of history?"_

There is no peace, he thinks.

"_Harry! Is it true you defeated the Killing Curse yet again?"_

Rumors have already gotten out, he thinks.

"_Harry! Over here, Harry!"_

"OI!" He hears Ron shout over the din, "You lot, back away! Get out of the way!" and he feels Ron and Hermione's arms wrap around his shoulders from each side, pulling him.

Stumbling forward, he blinks to the sight of their other arms spread protectively in front of him, attempting to create a pocket of space for him. His chest is tight and he can't breathe, he feels like he is suffocating as he sees what could be hundreds of eyes and the flashes of cameras and all of the voices and why won't they just _leave him the hell alone_.

Ron continues shouting, face contorted in rage as he practically spits at the reporters. On his other side, Hermione momentarily puts her arm down, snarling as she fishes for her wand.

As Harry starts to collect his wits, all he can feel is a heavy, overwhelming sense of dread.


	10. think

**title:** salubrious

**pairing:** eventual h/g

**an: **oooh look another update! [warning: this chapter comes with little editing. sorry.] I'm on a roll, guys. one more chapter after this until I get to the reason why I had to start writing this again. I love you all, thank you for putting this little story on alert or favorite. please leave me a review, I'd love to know what you're thinking! enjoy. review. all good things.

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_salubrious_

Harry spends the next few days trying mostly to avoid everyone.

He thinks it's supposed to be harder than this, to isolate himself, but then he remembers the lengthy list of all the people he has lost who were supposed to give a shit.

Harry, not for the first time, wishes he could stop feeling.

Woodenly, he gives a wry, bitter grin at the thought. Dumbledore wouldn't've liked that.

Harry supposes it's a bit grim to think of Dumbledore, considering his location, but perhaps it's all the more fitting.

Aside from when he has gone back to sleep in the dormitory, grunting a few words to Ron and Hermione in the process, or ghosted around the forgotten parts of the castle, Harry has set up at the landing at the top of the stairs in the Astronomy Tower. Every so often, he goes to the kitchens to bring up some food, but otherwise he has sat here, Invisibility Cloak and Map spread carelessly next to him, back against the door.

He has a lot of bad memories associated with this tower. He knows that it makes Ron and Hermione all the more likely to not look for him here, but based on their activity on the Map, he doesn't think they are even looking.

He's glad.

After their run-in with… well Harry supposes the real word for those reporters would be '_paparazz_i', when they had escaped back to the Hogwarts grounds and away from the vultures safely, Hermione and Ron still protectively hovered around him, Harry began to feel more and more ashamed.

Why had he lost it? Why couldn't he hold himself together? He understands being momentarily shell-shocked at the sudden influx of the unexpected cameras, but why couldn't he breathe?

He lets them know he's alright by returning to sleep in the bed next to Ron's at night, exchanging muted greetings. He hopes they aren't too worried, but based on his perusing of the Map, he knows that Ron has mostly been spending time with his family, Hermione usually by his side.

A part of him knows that the Weasley's, Mrs. Weasley in particular, are worried about him. Will always worry about him. He doesn't know what Ron has told them, but he is appreciative that they trust him enough to give him a few days to himself.

Even though he feels his loneliness in the world more acutely than ever before, another part of him feels like he needs this. He needs to let himself drown in it for awhile, without having to try to put on a brave face, without having to face the world and pretend to be doing fine.

To many of those congregating at the castle, he is their savior. (_Twice_, a small voice inside whispers.) He knows he has the right to not feel okay, to appear as weak and lost as he tries not to show, but despite his awareness that he does not owe these people anymore than he has already given, tried to give, he doesn't want them to look at him and see him crumbling.

In his self-imposed exile, he stares at the Map, studies it, picking out names and following their actions. In the past year, he has done this frequently. Though it brings him back to horrible times, the familiarity of it eases his mind. More often than not, he finds himself following the dot labeled _Ginny Weasley_. That dot is usually by many others labeled _Weasley_, the cluster of dots mostly staying together. Sometimes the dot, her dot, is by itself, down by the lake and lonely by where he knows the beech tree should be.

A few times, the dot has been by another labeled _Dean Thomas_. Harry refuses to give name to the emotions that have coursed through him, too confusing for him to want to sift through, but on those few occasions he has caught himself almost standing up.

Every time, he has sat back down.

More and more dots have been showing up on the Map as the days have progressed.

Hogwarts has turned into some sort of refugee camp. Harry has noted all of the names, most with familiar surnames, that have appeared on the Map in the past few days.

At first he was confused as to why the participants in the Battle had stayed at Hogwarts, why they had not returned home to more comforting and familiar ground. Why would you want to stay here, with all of the destruction and hurt and death?

Why wouldn't you go home?

He flounders a bit as, unbidden, the withering thought of _you don't have a home_ snakes its way to the forefront. It's true, he supposes, as he tries to beat the thought back with logic, trying to take the emotion out of the thought. There is always the Weasley's residence, but a part of him will always feel like a guest there. Grimmauld Place… He closes his eyes, sighs. That hurt, the future hope of having a place, having a family, living with his _godfather_, is still overwhelming.

He does have Hogwarts though. Hogwarts had given him a safe place, a place he could call home.

A safe haven.

A lot of these people had fled their homes, lived on the run in order to escape persecution. Despite that Voldemort was dead, they must not be sure what they would be returning back to. The Death Eaters had fled after the battle, but where have they gone? Are they looking to exact a few, last, desperate attempts at revenge before they either are caught or killed? Take as many from the opposing side with them before they go down?

Everyone is still scared, and Hogwarts, despite having been taken over by evil Death Eaters who had tortured children, despite existing in a state of half-ruin, still represents a beacon of safety to alumni.

That is one of Dumbledore's lasting legacies, Harry thinks.

With his back to the door, as if holding that door shut with his body could keep all of his old memories and future demons at bay, Harry holds tightly onto that thought.


	11. shelter

**title:** salubrious

**pairing:** eventual h/g, r/h

**an:** well. hello everyone. thank you, all, and please feel free to leave a review. if you do, I will pour my love into your anonymous-internet direction. so much love.

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_salubrious_

Back resting against the door, Harry can feel his eyes widen behind his glasses as he looks incredulously down at the open Map. He haphazardly brushes the crumbs from his now-eaten dinner off the old, worn parchment, his pulse picking up as he once again reads the name that is labeled so close to his own.

She must have snuck up here while he was slinking around the corridors retrieving his dinner, he thinks. His pulse quickens with anticipation. Steeling himself with a deep breath, Harry stands, tucking the Map in his pocket.

A strong gust of wind pulls at him as soon as he exits the door.

His gaze finds Ginny as if she were a fiery red beacon shot straight into the sky.

She leans too daringly against the stone turrets of the Astronomy Tower. The wind whips her red hair violently, swirling and snapping around her head.

The sight makes Harry freeze, warning shivers shooting down his spine despite the warm summer air.

She leans too daringly against the ledge, arms outstretched wide as if trying to capture the wind in her embrace.

Her laugh, pitched and hysteric, whistles past him with the wind.

Her head turns just enough so her eyes, full of brashness and sadness, tears and challenge, meet his own. A slight smile, a hard smile, a _brave _smile remains on her lips.

She is not startled to see him, her gaze reaching him without wandering and the intensity in her eyes pins him down, roots him to the spot. He stands as if _Petrified_, the image she makes against the setting orange sky breathtaking and terrifying all at once.

His heart rate picks up dramatically, thumping heavily in his head as she turns away, hands dropping to clutch the outside purchase of the stone, hips jutting ever so slightly out over the surface of the ramparts.

Another gust of wind hits him. Her hair twists, suspended for a moment behind her like some kind of red-orange-gold smoke before it snaps to stream past her face and out into the open air.

Banished memories of a terrifying night a year past electrifies his feet and he is suddenly ripping her away from the ledge, hands throwing her back towards the inner wall.

She stumbles backwards, her expression, formerly so alive, souring as she stares incredulously back at him.

"What are you doing!" he roars against the wind, fists clenching, his vision almost hazy from the alacrity and thunder of the heartbeat against his skull.

"What the hell are you doing?" he shouts again, raspier, and he feels angry, wild, his heartbeat is wild and his breathing all of a sudden doesn't feel adequate and he is helpless as that too picks up to a faster, shallow pace.

His fists clench and he turns away, away from her and her new concerned expression, bending and bracing his hands on his knees. He wills for his heart to slow down, for his breaths to even out, but there's just this _fist_ in his chest and it's got his heart and it's _squeezing_, and, and and—

And a hand gently falls on his shoulder.

He jumps away and spins towards her all at once.

Her eyebrows are creased over brown pools. Her hands are ghosting towards his, her slender fingers twitching as if to grab them.

But she doesn't.

"_Harry_," she murmurs, soft now, and he can't keep up with her eyes anymore.

He gasps a few more time before making a quick exit towards the steps, breathing still out of control, ignoring the hurt that crushes her gentle expression. He can't reach the door fast enough.

He throws the door open not soon enough to escape one last, desperate shout of "_Harry!_" before he arrives within the shelter of the tower, rushing down the spiral stairs.

The quick shuffles of his steps echo along the empty walls. He feels moisture on his cheeks.

_She was safe_, his logic tells him. _Nothing was going to happen to her_.

Fear still courses through him, not to be checked, and he wonders what day his instincts had decided to switch from fight to flight.

She had looked so… _free_.

He doesn't hear the door open behind him. She is not following.


	12. disgust

**title:** salubrious

**pairing(s):** eventual h/g, r/hr

**an:** a month late on my new year resolution: write more. I miss it. review your thoughts, I love hearing back

.

_salubrious_

The scheduling for the funerals has started. Every hour Harry has received some written form announcing what day and when and where he was supposed to go and pay his respects.

His stomach curls in on itself.

There's going to be a main memorial service on the Hogwarts grounds, giving everyone a chance to pay their respects to all of the fallen. He supposes it's the right thing to do.

Since his run in with Ginny the day before, Harry hasn't returned to his perch outside the Astronomy Tower. The desolate isolation of the place is ruined for him now; when he returned there before dawn, the greyscale of the stone walls and steps seemed to crackle with a glorious hue of red whenever he blinked.

She left some of her fire behind. He didn't know how to confront even that.

So he has been wandering, for an hour or so now, through the corridors and up and down the floors, trying to find another spot to ruminate.

He doesn't think he'll find a place quite like the Tower for his self-imposed exile.

Or maybe he's just feeling restless with the weight of the growing volume of letters, sitting like dark black stones accumulating in his pockets.

"Ah-hah!" he hears from down the hall behind him, "There he is."

Reluctantly, Harry turns.

Hermione is almost dragging a slightly reluctant Ron down the passage towards him. He would laugh if he didn't feel so empty, and if the reason for Ron's reluctance was something other than him.

She stops right in front of him, and looks challenging up into his eyes.

"Okay, Harry," she says, tone airtight and unapologetic, "Enough. It's been days, and that's enough."

Ron hovers awkwardly behind her shoulder, his eyes catching Harry's gaze before casting them back down at the floor.

His ineptitude crashes into him like a wave at that very moment.

"Yeah," he replies, and Hermione's expression softens into something like understanding as he tries to catch Ron's eyes once more.

As they all turn and head back towards the other end of the hall, the parchment bearing the name _Fred Weasley _burns against his thigh and weighs the most of them all.


	13. borrow

**title:** salubrious

**pairing(s):** (eventual) h/g ; r/hr

**an**: greetings, all. here we are again... I've been sitting on the chapter two prompts in the future for awhile, so now we are one step closer! please leave a review, let me know what you think. to all those that have reviewed or favorited, thank you so much. I'm just here, humbly writing this little fic at the end of my spring break, wondering why the fuck my body decided to give me a fever. Reviews heal my sickness, so. Review. yaknow.

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_salubrious_

He realizes that he doesn't have anything to wear.

That is the thought he wakes up with, one day before the memorial service.

The room that would have housed the seventh year boys has been left to them, the "Golden Trio", as he's heard people say. Never to his face, most people who see him just want to convey gratitude or hug him or just stare.

A part of him regrets that he has essentially kicked the rest of the boys his and Ron's year out of their proper home-away-from-home. It resembles yet another inconvenience he has imparted on his friends.

At the same time, he is less tense in their absence.

The night before, he had seen Ron trudge up the stairs carrying a clear garment bag that starkly displayed the somber black color of the cloth it protected.

The room seems quiet and still, he notes, before he opens his curtains. Perhaps Ron and Hermione had gone down to eat already.

Instead, a pensive Hermione is perched on Ron's bed, staring expectantly at him as he appears.

A bit shocked, he opens his mouth to start some sort of speech, but she cuts him off before he can even get started.

"I figured that today we should go into Diagon Alley to get dress robes for the Memorial. I know neither of us want to do that but we have to have something to wear and I never packed anything like that. And it might be too dangerous to go home."

He closes his mouth and nods.

Harry looks around. "Where's—"

"Ron?" she cuts in once again. "He got up earlier and went to be with the rest of them. They're…" at this, her composure slips a bit, but she recovers. "They're finalizing some of the details about… about the funeral."

Harry can't manage a better response than a quiet "oh".

"So," she says sharply on an exhale, "go get dressed. And grab your Invisibility Cloak on the way out."

~.~

Madame Malkin's shop is still standing, though it neither has escaped the war. Things that could have been magic-ed better have been left in disrepair, windows taped with plastic instead of fixed glass, a layer of soot and dust accumulating on the store's sign.

The open sign still rests face up on the door.

Madame Malkins is crouched cautiously behind the counter, wand raised and eyes afraid.

"Show yourself," she demands, but her voice trembles.

Hastily, Hermione and Harry slide the cloak off, revealing themselves with empty hands held high.

Madame Malkins terror quickly morphs from shock to disbelief as she studies them.

"_Harry Potter_…?" she whispers softly to herself, but he can hear her from where he and Hermione stand in front of the doorway.

"We are incredibly sorry for frightening you," Hermione says, Madame Malkin's eyes flicking quickly to look at Hermione, as if just realizing she was there.

"I hope you understand our discreetness," he apologizes, "Since… since the war ended, it's been difficult to get around peacefully."

His voice seems to shake her out of her stupor.

"Of course, of course," she replies, bustling from around the counter and beckoning them further inside the shop. "What do you need? Something for the memorial?"

"Yes," Hermione replies curtly, and all he can do is nod.

The next thirty minutes are a whirlwind of different sets of robes they need to try on. To Harry, they all look the same, though some fit slightly better than others.

Madame Malkins doesn't comment on his frailness, on how his measurements have definitely decreased, but maybe it is not as evident to her, how what he has been through has physically changed his body.

She seems happy to do something, happy to be doing her job. They don't ask her if business has been slow, but her regular chatter indicates what he guesses to be true.

When she is finally satisfied with both of their garments, they follow her to the counter, where she bags the clothes and pushes them across the surface.

"How much will that be?" he asks, fishing around in his pockets for his change-purse.

"No, no," she smiles waveringly, "No, I won't take your money. Free of charge. Thank you."

Despite their insistence, she manages to shoo them out of the shop without paying. As they put on the Invisibility Cloak and prepare to Apparate back to Hogsmeade, the uncomfortable weight in his stomach never leaves.

Maybe if he pretends that they're only borrowing the clothes, it will go away.


End file.
